


There’s a world

by liveinlivingcolor



Category: Les Misérables - All Media Types
Genre: Angst, Angst with a Happy Ending, Fluff and Angst, M/M, Slow Burn
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-11-07
Updated: 2020-11-10
Packaged: 2021-03-09 03:40:59
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 3,743
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27428080
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/liveinlivingcolor/pseuds/liveinlivingcolor
Summary: In this AU, Enjolras, Grantaire, Marius, Combeferre, and Jehan all survive the barricade.  Enjolras is badly injured and the responsibility of keeping them both safe and keeping him alive falls onto Grantaire.  This story deals heavily with Enjolras's mental recovery process after the barricade so if themes relating to ptsd/breakdowns/mental health issues could be triggering to you I would recommend being careful!
Relationships: Enjolras/Grantaire (Les Misérables)
Comments: 4
Kudos: 10





	1. The Aftermath

The light was unbearable.  
A pain such as the young revolutionary had never felt was seering through his skull. It was the only real thing in the moment. As Enjolras became aware of the rest of his body he knew that he was in pain such as never felt before. Was he dead? But his conscious thoughts were still real, and his pain was still very real, so he could not have died at the barricade.  
The barricade.  
It all came flooding back to him in one unbearable moment. He sat up abruptly, which proved to be as painful as sticking knives through his head. He quickly fell back, crying out in pain. Where was he? Where were his friends? Images were coming back to him, images of his friends being run through the chest with baionnettes or shot down by French soldiers. The streets outside the cafe musain had run red with blood, and Enjolras was helpless to do anything about it.  
And now here he was. He was alive, and he had no idea if he was the only one.  
He had to try sitting up again. He could not open his eyes and his entire right side burned like fire, but Enjolras wasn’t done yet. The drive within him had not been extinguished, and he prided himself on the belief that it never would. Enjolras must stand up. He forced his eyes open and took in what surroundings he could. He was lying down on a bed with nothing but one blanket and one small pillow. The room looked small and had no visible windows, though he had no idea where exactly this room was. He was alone as far as he knew, but his vision was still very fuzzy.  
Enjolras was growing dizzier and dizzier from the pain,and feared he was on the verge of passing out. It had been days since he had eaten or drank, depending on how long he had been unconscious for. The pain in his right leg was intolerable, but he had to, he must get up and walk. The thought of sitting still and waiting for information was even more unbearable than his physical pain; Enjolras had to figure things out for himself.  
To much dismay, Enjolras propped himself up on his elbows. This act alone had taken more from him than anything ever had before. He had to do this. He had to keep going. With one deep breath, Enjolras sat up in bed. For his friends.  
For Courfeyrac.  
For Combeferre.  
For Jehan.  
For Marius.  
For Joly and Bossuet and Gavroshe and his sister, whoever she was.  
And for Grantaire.  
Enjolras had not seen him the morning of the fall of the barricade, but for all his hatred and criticisms of the sceptic, he prayed he was alive just the same.  
His consciousness was fading. The door was only a few steps away from the bed where Enjolras now sat upright. He just needed to get to it before he passed out again. It was then that Enjolras realized that his right leg was dead. The pain in it was absolutely searing and no matter how hard he tried he was unable to move it. This was proving to be the most difficult task of the revolutionary’s life.  
Enjolras remembered the events leading up to his surrender to the national guard. He remembered running up the stairs of the burning smoke filled Cafe Musain, a musket in one hand and a red flag in the other. He remembered reaching the top and looking out over the carnage. He saw bodies of good, innocent men. Not even men, they were nothing more than boys being forced to lead a fight for the rights of the lower class. Enjolras had known this. He had known that fighting the good fight would not be easy. He had known that the only way to achieve equal rights for all would be to resort to violence. He had known that some good men would die, and he was okay with it.  
It had taken almost dying for Enjolras to understand how very wrong he had been. He was ashamed of himself, a shame that burnt deep inside his soul worse than any pain he’d yet to experience. But if Enjolras was going to pick up the pieces of the mess he alone had created, the first step was to stand up.  
His right leg could not support any weight, and the thought now occurred to the boy that he may be crippled for life. His useless leg would serve as his punishment, his reminder of the pain he had caused. They had families, and lives outside of the cause. Not Enjolras though, he had devoted his life to his cause, and now what was left for him.  
In a rush of angered inspiration and shame, Enjolras pushed himself off the bed and stood, grabbing onto the dresser for stability. He could not stop himself from crying out in pain, though he was not sure who was around to hear it. His right leg was offering him no assistance at all, and he knew he was on the verge of throwing up. What had become of the young revolutionary leader now? He could not be defeated so easily. As far as Enjolras was concerned he was still in a battle. The fight was not over.  
The revolutionary let go of the dresser, and collapsed to the ground immediately. He screamed as he heard a sickening crunch from his bad leg. The fight was over.

***

“Grantaire you know I can’t keep him here.”  
“And how exactly do you expect me to move him on my own? He’s in no position to go anywhere.”  
“And I can’t harbor two fugatives in the basement of my cafe for God knows how long till he’s healed. The national guard is patrolling the streets daily now, knocking on doors, looking for more of you revolutionary types. They’ve been here every day this week, asked if I knew anything. I denied it of course but I just know they’re suspicious. It won’t be long before they return”  
“I don’t know what else there is to do for him.”  
“Grantaire, he needs a doctor, urgently...or I fear he could soon--”  
“Don’t you dare finish that sentence.”  
When Enjolras opened his eyes again he was back on the bed. There were bandages on his head and his right leg had been propped up and covered with bandages and a blanket. Even without seeing it Enjolras knew the injury must be grotesque.  
“He’s awake,” said Madame Houcheloup, the old widowed woman who owned Cafe Musain and a long time acquaintance of Enjolras’s.  
As Enjolras tried to sit up again he was quickly urged back down. It was then that he became aware of the other figure in the room.  
It was Grantaire.  
The skeptic looked painfully sober, with intense bags under his eyes and visible blood and scrapes. Enjolras remembered their last interaction. He had been far too assertive with Grantaire. He had called him names: a deadweight, a useless drunk, a weight holding the rest of them back. He had said he wished Grantaire had never come to the barricade. He regretted that.  
It was Grantaire who had been by his side when he surrendered himself to the National Guard. Of all the people to die for his cause, it was the one who never claimed to believe in it from the beginning. Enjolras had always treated Grantaire terribly, and oh how he regretted that. The revolutionary regretted a lot of things now.  
“Grantaire?” Enjolras struggled to sit up again but was once again ussy red back down.  
“What the hell were you thinking Enjolras,” said Grantaire, as dry and honest as ever.  
“I needed to walk.”  
“You’re in no position to walk right now, you messed up your leg pretty bad when you fell out that window.”  
“I fell out a window?”  
Enjolras remembered very little that happened after the guns had gone off.  
“You don’t remember it?”  
“It’s all just...fuzzy right now. How long was I unconscious for?”  
“Almost a week, we weren’t….we weren’t sure you’d….nevermind.”  
The silent tension was palpable in the room. The same question hung above them all but no one wanted to ask.  
“And…..what about the others.”  
Grantaire took a deep breath and ran his fingers through his hair, stalling as much as he could before answering.  
“Well…a couple of them were taken prisoner by the French Army, Combeferre...and Jehan…Marius and the volunteer escaped…but uh...the rest.”  
Enjolras should have felt better. He hadn’t known anyone had survived and at least a few of his friend’s remained. But hearing Grantaire say it made it so much more real.  
“Courfeyrac?”  
“It’s not your fault Enjolras.”  
It was as if in that moment Grantaire could read his mind. But what he said was not true. It was his fault.  
“And...what about us?”  
“I’ve managed to contact Marius, but other than that everyone else believes that we both died at the barricade. Marius is staying with that girl Cosette and her father. They’ve offered to let us stay with them...except…”  
“Except what?”  
“Except I have no way of safely moving you there. Enjolras you can’t walk.”  
“Oh.”  
Their situation really was dire.  
“What are we going to do Grantaire?” Not once in the entire time the pair had known each other had Enjolras ever been reliant on hemp from the skeptic. For so much of their lives it had been the other way around, but so much had changed in the last week.  
Grantaire seemed taken aback by the question as well and hesitated. Enjolras looked into his tired eyes. He knew he couldn’t look as pitiful as he felt, but Grantaire did not respond with harsh words as the old Enjolras would have at this obvious display of emotion. He only continued to stare into Enjolras’s eyes, and give him a sad but yet so reassuring half smile. It was the only emotion that the young revolutionary had felt that day other than pain. It was not long before this brief feeling of something close to comfort vanished.  
“They’ve come back,” shouted the widow, shocking the two boys. “The Soldier who keeps asking questions. He’s just entered the cafe.”  
Fear changed the skeptic’s countenance as he quickly scanned the room, searching for ways to get Enjolras safely out of the building, but Enjolras did not move. The latter had accepted his fate; after all he could not walk, and doubted he’d ever be able to again. Enjolras sat unmoving as Grantaire looked in fear upon the other boy’s indifference.  
“We’ve got to get him out of here, right now.”  
“I will help in any way I can,” said the widow.  
“I...I can’t.”  
Grantaire starred at Enjolras in desperation.  
“Enjolras I know I said you were stupid but you’ve got to try again. You’ve got to get up.”  
“I can’t do it.”  
“I’m going to help you, and we’re going to get out of here together okay? Are you with me?”  
As Enjolras looked into Grantaire’s pleading eyes, he saw more emotion than he’d ever seen in the skeptic before. With that, Grantaire offered the revolutionary his hand once again. And just as Enjolras had taken it without hesitation at the barricade, he took it now. This was a new side to the skeptic, and Enjolras was intrigued.  
“Okay. I’m with you”


	2. The Safehouse

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Grantaire must help a badly injured Enjolras escape to a safehouse while Enjolras copes with survivors guilt.

“I’ve told you this every day this week there is no one here, you’re hunting down schoolboys that you’ve already killed or captured.”  
Grantaire was supporting more of Enjolras’s weight than he was, and with every motion he made he could feel the revolutionary wince in pain, though he knew if he didn’t stay quiet they could both end up dead. It was obvious that Enjolras had broken at least a few ribs, because he cried out whenever Grantaire tried to support him there. The other obstacle in their way was Enjolras’s right leg. He already looked pale and sickly with pain and with every step when his leg bumed the ground the pain hit him straight on like a wave. He wanted to help. The revolutionary had never felt this useless in his life but with his injuries putting him completely out of commission there was nothing he could do until he was seen by a doctor.   
The back door was not far away. The real trouble would be getting Enjolras to the nearest safe location, the home of Cosette and Monsieur La Mer, where they could work out a new plan and draw no attention to themselves. This would be difficult, but Grantaire was committed.   
The muffled voices could be heard from the other side of the door; if they decided to open it, Enjolras and Grantaire would both be killed for sure.   
“Two bodies were unaccounted for at the scene, one of them was their leader. If he survived we have reason to believe he may try to make contact with his revolutionary friends here.”  
“Nobody has come in here since you massacred a bunch of school children outside my cafe, now leave.”

“R...I...I can’t do this.” The fear and pain were evident in his voice. Grantaire hated seeing him in this pitiful state. It wasn’t him. Many people had an image of Enjolras in their heads as an invincible strong figurehead. This Apollo on earth could make no mistake in the eyes of Grantaire, and to see him in this terrible vulnerable state rattled his perceptions of him indefinitely. If there was one thing to be said about Enjolras, it was that he always had hope. The old Enjolras would take on the entire french army himself with nothing but his rifle and his unbridled enthusiasm. The revolutionary projected an aura of absolute confidence, and in the end it was that confidence that caused his downfall. He assured the les amis over and over again that the people were on their side and should they make the first move it was only a matter of time. Grantaire had always been the skeptic of this, but deep down he wished he had faith like that of the Apollo's. To see this hope taken from him was more than the skeptic could stand to see Enjolras reduced to hopeless and empty, something like himself.   
“Yes you can do this, you’ve got to Enjolras.”  
“Just leave, you can make it alone but I’m going to slow you down.”  
The revolutionary had already caused the deaths of many of his dearest friends, to be the cause of Grantaire’s death too was unthinkable.   
“Enjolras there is no way I’m leaving here without you so forget about it okay?”  
He was quiet, still making attempts to counterbalance the burning in his side with his breathing. Deep breath in. Take a step. Deep breath out. That was his refrain the entire distance across the tiny room with Grantaire’s support as his only other constant. He wasn’t leaving. They would make it out together. They had to.   
Enjolras didn’t know how much of a luxury fresh air was until he had been locked in the backroom of a cafe for a week with no food or water. The feel of it in his lungs was intoxicating, and he wished to stand still for a second longer just to take it all in. But time was another luxury the revolutionary had grown adapt to the deprivation of.   
They were already starting to draw more attention than they wanted. The national guard was currently searching the cafe and as the pair didn’t have long before they finished.   
Three blocks to the safehouse.   
Deep Breath in.  
Take a step.   
Deep Breath out. 

***

It was Cosette who answered the door to Number 25 Rue Plumett. She gasped at the state of the two but quickly ushered them inside and called for help. Enjolras was near collapsing; had the house been any farther away it was likely he would not have made it. Marius and Monsieur La Mer helped to carry him inside. Now after finally getting something to eat and drink, clean clothes, and a place to rest, the revolutionary was finally able to rest.   
Now his recovery would begin.   
Enjolras was both physically and mentally scarred beyond repair. He did not know it, but the war he had started was only beginning. The war inside of his mind. This was a battle the young revolutionary could not strategize, he could not give rallying speeches to adoring crowds and project his unwavering confidence. That enjolras had been frivolously risky. He had once thought that risking the lives of his friends was a necessary means, but nothing could be worth this.   
He thought of Combeferre and Jehan rotting in a French prison cell.  
He thought of Courfeyrac, who wasn’t even that lucky.   
It wasn’t like him to cry. He’d been taught at a young age like so many of his friends that showing emotions made you weak, and as the strong figurehead of a revolution that was something he could not afford. But this time he made no effort to stop himself. The Apollo was breaking.   
“I’m sorry,” he spoke out loud to the empty room in a soft whisper “I failed you.”

“You haven’t failed anyone.”  
He hadn’t been expecting an answer. In fact he hadn’t seen Grantaire enter the room at all. He must have looked startled because Grantaire appeared as if he regretted speaking in the first place.   
“They..uh...asked me to come check up on you...I’m sorry...I can leave if you want.”  
“No,’ he said sharply. If there was one thing Enjolras knew, it was that he did not want to be alone right now.   
“They’re uh….they’re working on getting you a doctor...but it’s kinda hard, you know, when you’re being hunted by the french army for treason and...all that.”  
“I understand.”  
“You know you really should be propping that leg up, I’m no doctor but it’s obviously broken pretty bad and the sooner you can walk again.”  
“Grantaire I’m fine.”  
“Enjolras I’m serious, let me do it.”  
“Fine.”  
He didn’t mean to come off as cold as he had. He had never been anything but angry and dismissive towards Grantaire, who had always, despite his many flaws, shown him the utmost respect.   
“I apologize,” said Enjolras, “ I didn't-..I don’t deserve your kindness.”  
Grantaire only half smiled to himself as he carefully propped Enjolras’s bad leg up on a pillow. He had been given a guest room at 25 Rue Plumet and would be allowed to stay there until he could walk on his own. Marius had assured the family that they would bring no trouble and simply needed a space to lie low.   
“R?”  
“Yeah?” Grantaire smiled at the nickname. It was strangely intimate for Enjolras’s standards. He had never considered them even friends before. Grantaire was simply the pain in Enjolras’s side, the skeptic to all of his grand ideas, but he always went along with them. He respected him beyond words and knew that he’d never be able to help but to listen to him.   
“Can I ask you a question?”  
He noticed Enjolras’s mess of curly hair. Normally perfect, it was now sticking out in all angles, though to a degree it was still perfect. No wonder he had taken on the nickname Apollo.   
“I mean...of course.”  
He could hear the sincerity behind Enjolras’s words; this was something hard for him to say, something he had probably been considering for a while, and Grantaire knew he would stay and listen to anything the revolutionary might say to him.  
“Why didn’t you just leave? You didn’t have to help me escape the barricade and I’ve never been kind to you a day in my life. Why didn’t you just leave me there?”  
Grantaire was silent. He hadn’t the slightest idea how to answer this question.   
He remembered vividly the events that took place leading up to the fall of the barricade. He remembered seeing Enjolras cornered and terrified by soldiers. He remembered feeling the same sense of disdain for seeing the revolutionary like this. This was no way for him to die, alone and a failure. He remembered the feeling of Enjolras holding his hand very well, and the pride in his eyes when he looked at Grantaire. What he wouldn’t do to feel that way again, like someone who could be proud of who they were. After a life of shame and humiliation the skeptic would die honorably, holding hands with his apollo.   
But that wasn’t how it went. The french soldiers had not shot him, though he believes they assumed they did. But they had hit Enjolras. Down Apollo fell out the window of the cafe. Tangled up in his flag he hit the side of the building with a sickening crunch. Grantaire was sure he was dead. When the soldiers had left the first thing his mind had told him to do was to run to Enjolras. He needed to know that he was dead first hand if he was going to believe it, and when he found out that he was not a feeling of relief and gratitude rushed through him. He knew that he had to help the dying revolutionary. If for nothing else then just to see that look of pride in his eyes one more time.   
“I...I couldn’t just leave you there, that wouldn’t have been right...I didn’t want you to die like that.”  
“Like what? Honorably? With the rest of my friends? Instead I’ve got to live with this guilt all of my life?”  
There was silence between them for a while.   
“I didn’t mean to raise my voice at you mon ami. You did save me, I’m grateful for that.”  
“Don’t mention it.”  
“R?”  
The revolutionary locked eyes with the skeptic again.  
“Yes?”  
“I’m sorry...for everything.”  
“What are you apologizing for Enjolras?”  
“I’ve never treated you well Grantaire, and you’ve always respected me in return, and then you saved my life. I truly do nott deserve the kindness you’ve shown me this week.”  
“I...I forgive you.”  
Enjolras smiled with that.   
“And Enjolras?”  
“Yes?”  
“I’m not leaving, I promise I’m not going to leave you like that, ever.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks for reading <3

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you for reading❤️ I am going to do my best to update this regularly. I’m still new to posting in here so any feedback is appreciated!!


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